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5S £> 



Book./flMfe- 

Copyright N° 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




GEORGE L. McDERMOTT, M.D. 



Mountain Breezes 



Selections from the 
Poems of 



J 
George B. McDermott, M. D. 



Written in the shadow of the Mountains and 
breathing the spirit of the West. 



THE WAHI.GREEN PUBLISHING CO. 
DENVER, COLO. 



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Copyright 1911 
By G. L. McDermott 



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Dedication 

This volume is dedicated to my children, 
with the thought that they may find in its 
lines that which may help them shape their 
lives, so each may one day say, "I have re- 
ceived much from the world; I have given 

more.'* 

— Author. 



I've watched the stream that trickles down 
E'en from life's very fountain. 

I 've heard the roar where waters pour 
O'er rocks, on life's bleak mountain; 

I've searched the pool, where eddies whirl. 
And in the depths there found the pearl. 



Contents 



Page 

Sunny Colorado 5 

Down on the Rio Grande 6 

Sleep 8 

The Canyon 9 

School Days 10 

Answer 11 

Life's Mirror 12 

End of the Day 13 

Smile 13 

The Rockies 14 

To Your Birthday 14 

A Mother's Love 15 

Colorado Sunset 15 

My Ship 16 

The Bluebird 16 

Cheyenne Mountain 17 

Along Life's Path 18 

The Lark 19 

To the Giver 19 

Reverie 20 

Old Friends 21 

Dawn 21 

Advice 22 

To the Stork 22 

My Garden 23 

Friendship's Flower 23 

Inspiration Point 24 

To Eva 25 

A Toast 25 

Wild Birds 26 

The Heart Doth Tell 26 

Bucking Broncho 27 

Arizona 28 

Contentment 30 

Make Friends 31 

Our Dog 32 

Faith 32 

Sunrise from Pike's Peak 33 

Our Girl 34 

Our Boy 35 

What is the Harvest? 36 



Contents — Continued 

Page 

The Sweetest Name 36 

The Desert 37 

The White Hillside 38 

Called to Bloom Above 39 

Hope 39 

At Forty 40 

The Plowman 41 

The Great Divide 42 

Looking Backward 43 

Thinking 44 

Kindness 45 

Our Baby 46 

The Cowboy's Grave 47 

Flowers 48 

Speak Kindly 49 

Indian Cupid 50 

Castles 51 

Mexican Joe 52 

Charity 55 

The Cave 56 

Wasted Lives 57 

The Brook 58 

Then and Now 59 

The Suicide 60 

The Thrush 60 

Dying Year 61 

Learn Thou 62 

A Dream 66 

Farm Troubles 67 

Do It Now 68 

The Miner 69 

Love 70 

Coyotes 71 

Life's Stages • 72 

The Cowboy 73 

Drooping Blossoms 74 

That Boy 75 

Spring 76 

The Lone Pine 77 

Infinity 78 

The Tenderfoot 79 

Deep in the Heart 80 

Irish Philosophy 81 

Buckskin Dan 82 



Sunny Colorado 

[ rKFi a gem I found her lying, 

"Where the morning sunbeams flying, 
Touched each spire and mountain pillar, 

Turning all to gold; 
In my heart a newborn pleasure 
Grew and overflowed its measure, 
For I saw here nature 's beauty, 

That never can grow old. 

Nestling, like a sweet wild flower, 
Still unfolding, hour by hour, 
Each new petal, richer, fairer, 

Than the one before; 
Heaven warmed the sweet, pure air, 
That comes to you like a prayer, 
Soothing, helping, blest with sunshine, 

Giving hope once more. 

Where the streams, like silver flowing, 
AVhere the mountain breezes blowing, 
Freighted with the breath of blossom, 

Heaven's gifts to swell; 
Here there is a joy in living, 
Nature here is ever giving 
From her bounty rich in plenty, 

Here I long to dwell. 



Page Five 



Down on the Rio Grande 

MET him in New Mexico, 
A grayhaired, quaint old man, 
With wrinkled brow, though kindly face 

Well covered o 'er with tan ; 
With clear blue eyes, that still did hold 

The fearlessness he knew of old. 

The West he saw in early day, 

The Redman in his prime; 
When camp fires burned on wooded hills, 

To mark their gathering time; 
W T hen plots were rife, and arrows flew, 

So silently, but Oh, so true. 

He had seen the buffalo in herds 

Sweep o'er the level plain; 
And now he thinks of bygone days 

That ne'er will come again; 
The herds he knew, long since have fled, 

Their bones across the plains are spread. 

Each valley holds for him a tale, 

Each hill is holy ground; 
For there, he points with trembling hand, 

To many a lowly mound; 
And thinks about some comrade true. 

That in the early days he knew. 

He showed the scars of many a fray. 

When blood ran warm and free, 
And man forgot his brother man 

Might not his color be; 
For then, the Red and White did know 

The other only as a foe. 



Page Six 



A strange old man, lie seemed to me, 
Whose sands were ebbing fast; 

And, in him I would try to read 
The record of the past; 

For in the past his thoughts did dwell, 
'Mid scenes he knew and loved so well. 

He seemed a milestone on the way, 

To me, a passer by; 
A page of early history, 

Whose ink had long been dry; 
A type left o 'er from other days, 

When life was shaped in sterner ways. 

He told about the trackless waste, 

He found long years before; 
Of Indian wars, and outlaw bands, 

He knew, in days of yore; 
It stirried his heart to tell about 

The pony's dash, the Indian shout. 

He told about old Santa Fe, 

And how the trail led on; 
And of a pretty Spanish maid, 

The daughter of a Don; 
Who lived down on the Bio Grande, 

And how he strove to win her hand. 

He told about the old ox trains, 

With canvas covers white; 
And how, when Indian bands drew near, 

Of duels they did fight; 
And sometime 'twas the arrow won, 

But often 'twas the white man's gun. 

Page Seven 



Of damsels, taken in the night, 
When all the camp did sleep; 

Of mothers, at the dawning hour, 
Who then did sorely weep ; 

Of fierce encounters, hand to hand, 
To save them from the Indian band. 

Of men who knew no thought of fear, 

But only pleasure found 
In hurrying where danger lay, 

When duty's note did sound; 
And, when the danger past and o'er, 

To ride away and hunt for more. 

The old man's eyes did dance with joy, 
As he lived the old days o'er; 

And I left him, with a heart now full 
Of memories sweet of yore; 

Of the free wild life, and the beauty 's hand, 
He loved, down on the Rio Grande. 



Sleep 



w j 



r HEN you're all tired out, and your bones 
just ache, 
And you feel if you move there will something 

break ; 
Then you creep into bed and you lay your head 
On a nice soft pillow and you can't keep awake; 
And you think, as you sink into shadows deep 
What a glorious thing is a chance to sleep. 



Page Eight 



The Canyon 

"THOSE giant walls of pictured rock, 
Have filled my heart with wonder; 
And as I dream I see again 

That mountain rent asunder, 
The dizzy height, the trailing vine, 

The gentle breezes blowing; 
The fragrance of the balmy pine 

That in each cleft is growing. 

• And now again the noisy stream 

Comes dashing o 'er the boulder 
That juts out from the torrent's bed 

Like some old giant's shoulder; 
While through the air the jeweled spray 

Like sunbeam darts is flying, 
And with the wild flowers ' glad array 

For beauty's prize seems vieing. 

What tales those broken rocks doth tell 

Of time in earth's fair morning 
When nature spread her virgin sod, 

The hills and dales adorning; 
Of seas upturned, of countries lost, 

Of mountains rent and broken, 
Like changing shapes of crystal frost; 

Of other times a token. 

The beauty of that wondrous place 

That knows not breadth or measure, 
Will ever come to fill my dreams 

And heart with purest pleasure, 
A beauty that is ever young 

Unmindful of time's changes, 
Refreshing as the mountain snow. 

That lies upon the ranges. 

Page Nine 



School Days 

I 'M sitting alone this evening and thinking of 

days long fled, 
I've hunted up old Father Time and this to him 

I said: 
Eeverse your wheels, and let me drift hack to 

the long ago, 
When I boy I went to the old brick school 
That I in youth did know. 

It stood as kind of a landmark built by our 
fathers all, 

And time's rude hand had left its trace on chim- 
ney, roof and wall ; 

But each mark left by that aged seer holds 
memories dear to me, 

For vears ago in that old brick school I learned 
my A B C. 

And again I see the old schoolroom with maps 

upon the wall, 
The rows of little hoods and caps that hung out 

in the hall; 
Again I hear the merry shouts of children at 

their play, 
And like an echo brings me back my own dear 

childhood's day. 

Oh, memory, sweet memory, bridge back each 
changing year ; 

Bring back again those childhood days so full of 
wholesome cheer; 

The only boon that I will ask is just one glad- 
dened hour, 

That I may now those scenes arrange, beneath 
your magic power. 

Page Ten 



Then I'll paint a memory picture to hang in 

memory's hall, 
Of the old brick school I loved so well, with its 

cracked and battered wall ; 
And in the years to come, I know 'twill bring me 

peace and joy 
To think of the happy days I spent in the old 

school when a boy. 



Answer 



W H ; 



[AT if the years have drifted by! 

And what if your hair is gray ! 
The same old clock still hangs on high 
You knew in your childhood's day 
The same old clock, with its quaint tick-tock, 
Still counting the hours away. 

What if your face is lined and thin ! 

And what if your step is slow ! 

It has little to do with the heart within, 

To lessen sweet friendship's glow, 

The shadows of night give the embers a light, 

The noonday can never know. 

What if fortune passed you by ! 

And you heard not the call of fame; 

If the beauty of nature has charmed your eye, 

And your record is free from blame, 

You have won in the race, for naught can efface 

The wealth of an honored name. 



Page Eleven 



Life's Mirror 

IT'S a pretty good world, this old ball of clay, 
With its bright sunny sky; its birds and its 
flowers, 
With plenty for all as we go on our way ; 
Enough to last on through our few fleeting 
hours, 
And the key to the pleasures that tc us are sent 
Lies just at our hand — it is known as content. 

Go out to the mountain, the valley or stream, 

And list to the tales that nature doth tell; 
Or lie in her lap and in ecstasy dream 

Where a brook laughs its way through some 
flowery dell 
And the note that makes vibrant and happy the 
ear 
Is an echo of hearts overflowing with cheer. 

The world is the same — as it ever has been; 

It does what it can to make happy our day, 
And it differs as when through our tears it is 
seen, 

Or again when our hearts are happy and gay, 
Like a mirror reflecting our lives ever new, 

The lenses are ours to adjust each our view. 



Page Twelve 



End of the Day 

TWILIGHT deepens on the plains, 

Shadows creep along; 
Just enough of light remains 

For the birds' last song; 
Hear the tinkle of the bells; 

Flocks are drawing near, 
Gathering about the wells; 

Evening is here. 

Quiet settles round about, 

Shadows all gone by; 
Little stars come peeping out 

From their home on high. 
Peace arrayed in somber hue, 

Stretches forth her hand, 
Shades the last dim light from view, 

Night creeps o'er the land. 



Smile 

^/HEN you've got the blues and the road 

seems rough, 
And fortune has left you in a huff, 
You meet some one with a happy smile 
And you walk together a little while, 
And you notice as you stroll along, 
The birds break into a cheerful song, 
And flowers are blooming bright and fair, 
And a note of gladness fills the air, 
That you had not felt for the longest while 
'Till you met that one with a happy smile. 

Page Thirteen 



The Rockies 

("^ IANT peaks, rock-bound and grand, 

That rise from fields of green, 
Like sentinels you ever stand, 
To guard the treasure nature planned, 

In vales that lie between; 
Your garments old, are seamed with gold, 

As fits a western queen. 

Your brow is crowned with clouds and snow 

And at your feet the flowers 
Look upward through the sunlit glow, 
To babbling brooklets where they flow, 

In answer to the showers; 
And through the trees, the mountain breeze 

Sings through the passing hours. 

I love your peaks of summer snow, 

I love your canyons deep, 
Where shadows wander to and fro, 
And wild flowers find a place to grow, 

And clinging ivies creep; 
Your rugged art has won my heart, 

And there a place will keep. 



To Your Birthday 

A DDING a petal year by year, 

To life 's unfolding flower, 
May friendship sweet, like fragrance cling, 
To leaf and branch and gladness bring, 
To fill each golden hour. 



Page Fourteen 



A Mother's Love 

A WONDROUS tiling is a mother 's heart 

A temple of beauty rare ; 
Built of love, from realms above, 

With a cornerstone of prayer; 
And could you unfold its walls of gold, 

It's filled with tenderest care. 

What a blessing it is, a shrine like this, 
In a world where care is rife; 

When the heart oppressed may here find 
rest, 
Away from troubled strife ; 

And here renewed, by hope imbued, 
May start again in life. 

A mother's love is the golden link 
That bridges the thinning air; 

To that home on high, beyond the sky, 
Where all is bright and fair, 

For that which gives birth to the joys of 
earth, 
Unlocks the temples there. 



Colorado Sunset 



B 



ANTRS of roses, yellow and red, 
Shot with purple and gold, 
Trellaced all on a torquois wall, 
Where angels await the mystic call, 

The shades of night to unfold. 



Page Fifteen 



My Ship 

QUT on the billowy ocean, 

My good ship is coming to me; 
Freighted with treasure, with joy and with 
pleasure, 
And riches from over the sea. 

Each morn I am anxiously watching 
For a sight of that promising sail, 

Though the winds now are veering, 

Hope ever is steering, 
My ship, that must come without fail. 

So I'm watching and wishing and waiting, 
For the ship that my treasure doth hold; 

And the thought lights the way, 

Clear across the great bay, 
To the harbor of jewels and gold. 



The Bluebird 

DRETTY little bluebird, on your airy wing, 
How I love to watch you, love to hear you 
sing; 
Often have I wondered why it was but two 
Caught the glow of heaven — the violet and you. 

Some day, little bluebird, when I'm growing old, 
When the winter of my life makes me feel the 

cold, 
Will you then come to me, bring me love so true, 
Bring me thoughts of heaven, with your coat so 

blue? 

Page Sixteen 



Cheyenne Mountain 

f~YLD you ever stand on a mountain grand 1 

Up under a clear blue sky, 
Above the earth, where streams have birth, 

And laugh as they ripple by; 
Where the crisp dry air has a fragrance rare, 

That comes to you like old wine, 
And your being is filled and your heart is 
thrilled, 
By a joy you can't define. 

There you dream and think where the wild deer 
drink 

And the brown bear ambles by; 
And the eagle soars, where the water roars, 

That falls o'er the crags on high. 
The world below is a passing show 

That lives but a puny day; 
But the beauty found on this wondrous mound 

Is destined to last for aye. 

There's a glad wild charm that knows no harm, 

In the life on the mountain wild; 
Where the endless breeze sings through the trees 

With the voice of a happy child, 
And it tells of a life, where joy is rife, 

So free from earthly care; 
That those below can never know 

'Till they breathe the mountain air. 



Page Seventeen 



Along Life's Path 

•THERE'S a pa th that leads over the foot of 
1 the hill 

To a place where the buttercups grow; 

There 's a stream that runs down from the old 
silent mill, 
Where oft as a boy I did go ; 

There's a deep shady nook by the side of the 
brook 
That I knew in the old long ago. 

And oft did I sit by the side of the stream, 
When school and its trials were o'er, 

And I pictured the world in a kind of a dream, 
Like a child, with its blocks on the floor; 

And the brook laughed in glee, when my plans it 
did see, 

As I fashioned my craft on the shore. 

And when all was ready, I pushed boldly out, 

After saying a loving farewell; 
And the stream caught my bark and tossed it 
about, 
And as each rushing wave broke and fell, 
I thought of the hours I spent 'mongst the 

flowers, 
Where the stream laughed its way through the 
dell. 

And now, as I watch by the side of the sea, 

For ships coming in from afar, 
I see some go by with sails blowing free, 

And some seared with many a scar; 
But all now would steer where the waters are 
clear, 

For they think of the home harbor bar. 

Page Eighteen 



The Lark 

| HEARD the lark at early mom, 

Greeting the rising sun, 
When dew was fresh on leaf and thorn, 

And day had just begun; 
I heard him pour his rich, round voice, 

From out the blue above; 
Making the earth and air rejoice 

With the fullness of his love. 

Again I heard as shades of night 

Were hiding the earth away, 
The same glad notes of wild delight, 

That welcomed the budding day; 
When all the birds had gone to sleep, 

And petals soft did close, 
'Twas then he sang with feeling deep 

His good-night to the rose. 

Oh, thou who greets the day with song, 

And cheers the evening hours, 
'Till shadows gather deep and long. 

And darken woodland bowers, 
You must have gone on airy wing, 

Up to the heavens blue; 
And heard the songs the angels sing, 

And brought them back with you. 



To the Giver 

pBINK not your gifts must priceless be, 

Rich gems, or treasured art; 
For kindly words, like songs of birds, 
Will cheer the saddest heart. 

Page Nineteen 



Reverie 

I STOOD on the bank of the stream of life, 

And watched its waters flow; 
And mirrored there were pictures rare, 
Of days of long ago. 

I saw life's silver morn again, 

I saw life's golden noon, 
And all the hours of joy and pain, 

And youth that fled so soon. 

There some of the waves were pure and 
clear 

And reflected the blue above, 
And some were broken and darkly drear. 

And spoke not of light or love. 

Angry and dark and merry and gay, 
What a medley of song and strife, 

The ripples broke and melted away, 
Then formed with a newer life. 

I watched this stream as it rippled past 

'Till lost in an endless sea; 
From a tiny thread, 'till the veiy last. 

It merged in eternity. 

Then I closed my eyes and turned away, 
But the picture did not depart; 

For what I saw in the stream that day, 
Reflected mv inmost heart. 



Page Twenty 



Old Friends 

I'VE been back home just a visiting, 

Where I grew up when a boy, 
I had sort of set my heart on the trip, 

And knew I would enjoy 
A shaking hands with old neighbors, 

For you see, I knew them all. 
But I'm sorry I went, for the memory 

Hangs o'er me like a pall. 

The town hadn 't changed an awful lot, 

But what's the town to me? 
'Twas the people, I was thinking of! 

And them's who T went to see; 
But they've most all gone since I left there, 

Not moved away, you know; 
They're there — but I didn't see them, 

I giiess T have been too slow. 

I'd been planning the trip for Oh, so long, 

And the years kept slipping by; 
And now I know that I was wrong, 

I could have gone if I did but try; 
And I would so liked to have seen them all, 

And I hope in the world to be, 
They'll be waiting there with hands outstretched 

To sort of welcome me. 



Dawn 



o 



PALS and pearls, on a web of gold ; 
Is the robe of the morning sprite, 
With taper aglow from the stars' last ray, 
She touches the golden orb of day, 

And floods the world with light. 



Page Twenty-one 



Adv 



ice 



Q AYS Uncle Bill, when you grow up, 

Just buy yourself a farm; 
There's something in the country ways 

That gives to life a charm; 
Your crops are growing, while you sleep, 

And want can never frown; 
And Uncle Bill, he ought to know, 

He always lived in town. 

Says Uncle Dave, when you grow up, 

Just learn to keep a store, 
With not a thing to do all day, 

But stand around the floor, 
With people bringing in the cash, 

And all so snug and warm, 
And Uncle Dave, he ought to know, 

He lives out on a farm. 



To the Stork 

THERE'S a flutter of wings and an angel's 
smile, 

And heaven has opened her portals the while, 
To drop a seed to the earth below, 
To bud, to blossom and sweetly grow, 

To brighten the lives and hearts of men, 

And then to return to heaven again. 



Page Twenty-two 



My Garden 



i 



PLANTED a garden in early spring, 
When the sun was bright and warm, 
Where wild birds came, their songs to sing, 

And honey bees did swarm, 
And I sowed my seed with a lavish hand, 

'Neath the power of the season 's charm. 

The sun shone down as it can in June; 

And with it came gentle showers; 
To the music of the wild birds' tune, 

That rang through the sunlit hours. 
My plants came forth, from their little beds, 

But not all that came were flowers. 

For, I did not know, in the planting day — 

Or it may be, I did not heed — 
That a garden but reflects the way 

We select our early seed. 
But I somehow love my flowers the more, 

For their contact with the weed. 



Friendship's Flower 

pRIENDSHIP is a blossom fair, 

That in the heart doth dwell; 
Each kindly thought that enters there, 

Its germ of life doth swell; 
The seed that yields this wondrous flower, 

Is dropped from heaven above, 
And in its fragrance lies the power 

That rules our truest love. 

Page Twenty-three 



Inspiration Point 

•THERE'S a part of the range where the hill's 
gentle slope 
Paints a scene that no pen can define; 
Where snnshine and shade, marking highlights, 
have made 
A picture that's almost divine; 
And you wait here to see fairy sprites sporting 
free 
'Neath the far-reaching spread of the pine. 

It is here that the heart that for beauty doth 
yearn, 
Breathes a sigh of the fondest content, 
Where the blue sky above, like a rnirror of love, 

With the hills and the valleys is blent; 
And the air is o 'erfilled with a balm that 's dis- 
tilled 
From the pine and the wild rose's scent. 

Every moment that comes in this wonderful 
place, 
New shadows are cast on the screen ; 
'Till the mind cannot share half the beauty 
that's there, 
And you long for the end of the scene, 
That your o'erflowing heart may keep some 
little part 
Of that vision of shimmering green. 



Page Twenty-four 



To Eva 

J MET her one night, at the bend of the stair, 

A vision in pink, with dark fluffy hair; 
The lights burning low, caught the color's warm 

glow, 
Revealing a beauty, surpassingly fair. 

I saw her again, as she came down the aisle 
Of the old parish church, with the same happy 

smile, 
The organ's tone low, seemed in beauty to grow, 
As she knelt in devotion to pray there the while. 

We've walked hand in hand through the rough 
days and fair, 

'Till the first frost of winter has sprinkled my 
hair; 

Though the embers burn low in the rich after- 
glow, 

I still see the beauty I met on the stair. 



A Toast 

LJERE'S to the friends of olden days! 
And here's to those we're greeting! 
For olden days had golden ways, 

To teach the heart each meeting, 
May but begin a friendship dear, 

To last on, on through many a year. 



Page Twenty-five 



Wild Birds 

I LOVE the songs of the wild birds 

That come to us in spring; 
There's a sound of cheer in each note so 

clear, 
In the messages they bring. 
I love to see them come and go 
On light and gladsome wing; 

To see them in the summer, 

Each with a mate so true, 

While silver notes from fluted throats, 

Ring out the long day through. 

They give to life a greater charm, 

To earth, a richer hue. 

I love them in the springtime, 

And when they build the nest, 

But the little brood in the shady wood. 

Is what I love the best; 

With the mother bird a-f uttering near, 

With the love that fills her breast. 



The Heart Doth Tell 

'THEY say that a woman is as old as she looks, 

And a man is as old as he feels; 
But this I know, that youth will endure 
As long as the heart keeps young and pure, 
And naught but love reveals ; 
The rose yields a fragrance, far more rare, 
As time through its petals steals. 



Page Twenty-six 



Bucking* Broncho 

AND I'll give a peck of silver fine 

To the one who can ride that hoss; 
Now don't you try, you're a friend of mine! 

And I tell you he's mighty cross; 
He 's the ornerest brute that ever wore 

A tail, or a wooden head; 
And don't you go to acting sore, 

If you happen to come back dead. 

He 's a pretty beast, and I like his grit, 

But I want to tell you, pard, 
He isn't the easiest thing to sit, 
And you'll land so awful hard; 
And when you spread your anatomy 

Over a rock-strewn sod, 
You won't have a word for charity, 

Not even a thought of God. 

I sometimes hear what a city youth 

Would do to that grey cayuse, 
And the way he handles the sacred truth 

Is past all known abuse. 
Say! I know there ain't one in the pack 

That with me can compare, 
And I wouldn't leave my hat on the back 

Of the ornerv brute out there. 



Page Tiventy-seven 



Arizona 

f)UT where cactus with its prickles, 
Dot the landscape, far and near. 
Where the sand-flea gently tickles, 

Those who care to linger here; 
Where the only kind of shade is 

The protection of your hat, 
And the air that's fresh from hades, 

Filters idly under that. 
Where the clouds, if e'er they gather, 

Have no thought of gentle rain, 
And the native there would rather 

Loaf, than think of earthly gain. 

Here I found myself one summer, 

Lost, would be a better word; 
For the weather was a hummer, 

Fit for neither beast, or bird, 
Hot, at morning past all naming, 

Hotter, through the growing day, 
Till at noon, it's simply flaming, 

And the earth burned brown and gray, 
Acts just like a big reflector, 

Gives you back a double share, 
If there 's a breath, you ' can 't detect her. 

In that caldron glowing there. 

Truthful men, and here you find them, 

Tell of fishes in the stream, 
Leaving trails of dust behind them, 

' ' This is not an idle dream ; ' ' 
When the day is gently waning, 

And the sun is getting low, 



Page Twenty-eight 



Seemed as if the heat were gaining, 

Like a sort of after glow; 
People seem of good intention, 

Till someone says, "Ain't it hot?" 
Then the papers simply mention, 

That a tenderfoot was shot. 

Here at first I used to wonder, 

Why each one strapped on a gun, 
Later on I ceased to ponder, 

When I saw the good it done. 
When the shades of night were falling, 

And I longed for restful sleep, 
Came the coyotes, gently calling 

For their friends, a date to keep, 
Then at last, the goddess slumber 

Wraps me in its warm embrace, 
Something comes with feet a number, 

Gentle creeping o 'er my face. 

Then, I cried out for a Savior! 

While I jumped like startled steed, 
Someone curses my behavior, 

Says it's just a centipede. 
Then some talk in simple language, 

'Bout the trouble that I gave, 
While my heart, o'erfilled with anguish, 

Thinks about a new-made grave. 
Thoughts of sleep have now gone flying, 

With the country, I am through, 
While my perspiration's drying, 

T will catch the first train due. 



Page Twenty-nine 



Contentment 

A FEOG once lived in a shady pool, 

Where his home was covered by big green 
leaves 
Of the water lily, fresh and cool, 

And the frog was taught and still believes 
The nearer nature he would keep, 
The greater happiness he would reap. 

So, he started in as a pollywog, 

In the shade of the water lily's bud; 

And he grew into a regular frog; 

Where he knew the water and knew the mud, 

And he loved it all in his frog-like way, 
The water cool and the lily gay. 

At morn he watched the sun get up, 

'Till it filled his home with its beauteous light; 

And while his luncheon he did sup, 

The sunbeams played with the lily white, 

And when the shades of eve did fall, 
He would sit and list to the whipperwill 's call. 

Then when the night would settle down, 
And all the birds had gone to bed; 

He would change his green and yellow gown 
For his darker robes, and lay his head 

On the breast of a water lily white, 
And sleep and dream throughout the night. 

And oft in a dream, that frog would see 

A vision of some distant place, 
A palace grand, or perhaps 'twould be 

The meeting of great ones, face, to face, 
Things that were rich and rare and grand, 

Almost too great to understand. 

Page Thirty 



But, when he had watched each wondrous thing, 
For a little while, the thought he found, 

A something, with a hollow ring, 
He would judge the metal by the sound; 

For the artificial could not ring true, 
And though but a frog, all this he knew. 

Then he loved his home pond all the more. 

The waters cool and the lily white, 
Where he could sit on the mossy shore, 

And dream and sleep, in the white moonlight ; 
Where everything breathed of nature love, 

From the lily white to the stars above. 

So he spent his days in the shady pool, 
And knew not of the world and its strife, 

To him it was fond nature's school, 
Where he learned the lesson that shaped his 
life, 

To be satisfied with what you own, 
Whether frog in a pool or king on a throne. 



Make Friends 

Yfl AKE friends as you go, 

While the summer's aglow: 
For the winter will come, 

And the cold winds will blow, 
And the friends of the spring, 

And the memories they bring, 
Will be the rich harvest 

From seed that vou sow. 



Page Thirty-one 



Our Dog 



H 



E was only a dog, like any small dog, 
With a queer little look in his eye, 
Part merry and glad, part lonely and sad, 

And part, just a little bit shy; 
But any one'd love this wee little dog, 

I'll tell you the reason why. 

This wee little dog, who is only a dog, 
Has a language, that's almost an art; 

And his wants never fail, for with his wee tail 
He wig-wags them straight to your heart; 

And he talks every language in this simple way, 
With only his tail taking part. 

We meet many friends, as we go on our way, 
But I'll wager, there's only a few, 

Who from day to day, with no thought of pay, 
Will be ever as kind and as true 

As our little dog, who is only a dog, 
For he is a friend through and through. 



Faith 

QTARS that guide us on our way, 

O'er life's uncertain sea; 
Pointing the path that day by day, 

Winds toward the lea ; 
Where ships are moored and crews find rest, 

In God's eternitv. 



Page Thirty-two 



Sunrise from Pike's Peak 

r T HERE'S a blush of gray, in the east away, 

With an edging round of gold; 
A surging of color, bright and gay, 

With a shower of rubies in glad array, 
And the night is gone, and behold ! the day ! 

Its petals soft, unfold. 

Like a heaven-born flower, the dawning hour 

Has painted the eastern sky! 
And beauty has lavished her wondrous power 

In building of sunbeams a gorgeous tower, 
'Till it bursts, in a molten, flaming, shower, 

To blend with the blue on high. 

A wonderful sight, is the dawning bright, 
When seen from this grand old pile; 

To watch the peaks, on left and right, 
As they catch the glint of the morning light, 

'Tis truly a beautiful, glorious sight, 
Where heaven itself doth smile. 



Page Thirty-three 



Our Girl 

THE fairest rose that beauty knows, 

With loving, dark brown eyes; 
A mouth as sweet as things we meet 

When we dream of paradise; 
That's what we have at our house! 
Just dropped down from the skies. 

This blossom fair, has dark brown hair, 

And when it's all a-curl, 
You would hunt for hours amongst the flowers, 

For a sweeter than our girl! 
We've a jewel over at our house, 

A blend of rose and pearl. 

And when at night, with eyes closed tight, 

After her prayers are said, 
While our darling's asleep, may angels keep 

Their watch around her bed. 
May their blessings remain at our house, 

Around her curlv head. 



Page Thirty-four 



Our Boy 

J BOUGHT some boots with tops so red, 

For my cunning little boy; 
His heart for days on the thought had fed, 

Of those nice new boots with tops so red, 
This funny little boy ; 

For he said that never a man he 'd be, 
Without those boots clear up to his knee, 

And of course his logic I could see, 
This cunning little boy. 

I bought some boots with tops so red, 

For my cunning little boy, 
They were meant for his feet, but that leather 
red 

Has taken my place in that little boy's head, 
And won my little boy; 

But I guess a brand new jumping jack, 
Or some candy and nuts done up in a sack, 

Will help to bring my little boy back, 
This cunning little boy. 



Page Thirty-five 



What is the Harvest 

YY^HAT have you gathered on life's highway? 

Oh, you, with your wealth of years. 
Have you gathered smiles and laughter gay? 

Or have you gathered tears? 
Have you strip 't the chaff from a wholesome 
laugh, 
'Till naught but the grain appears? 

And what have you now from your many years 
That you spent on life's highway? 

Are your memories now of smiles or tears? 
Is your heart now sad or gay? 

The grain is a care that you cannot share, 
While the chaff would be gold today. 



The Sweetest Name 

AN ANGEL whispered to the rose, 

The sweetest word he knew; 
'Twas borne from heaven, as petals close, 

And gently falls the dew ; 
And left to sleep where perfume forms, 

And honey filters through. 

And early, at the dawning hour, 

When wakes each little bird ; 
I hastened to that opening flower, 

To catch that mystic word; 
The petals whispered, "mother," 

'Twas all the sound I heard. 



Page Thirty-six 



The Desert 

J^ BARREN land where rocks and sand 

Stretch out in dismal waste, 
As though fair nature stay'd her hand, 

Or passed it by in haste. 
A land so drear that none come near 

Its fevered breath to taste. 

A land whose air holds naught that's fair, 

But stagnates in the sun. 
No foot of traveler wanders there, 

And even wild things shun; 
The only life that there is rife 

Is where the lizards run. 

Its cruel sands like death's grim hands 

Hold many a whitened bone, 
Of those who stray 'd from fairer lands 

To die out there alone; 
For there the cost of being lost 

Is a grave without a stone. 



Page Thirty-seven 



The White Hillside 

IT'S cold tonight on the white hillside, 

Where our loved ones sleep in their narrow 
beds 
And the wind through the frozen branches sigh 

A mournful requiem o'er their heads. 
We sit around our warm hearthstone 

And think of those who were once our own. 

It's bitter enough when the birds and flowers 
Make the hillside bright with their welcome 
cheer, 

But now I count the lonely hours ; 
I think of those on the hillside drear, 

And many a mother's heart, I know, 
Goes out to the hillside 'neath the snow. 

It's cold tonight where the snow lies deep, 
But it's warm in the loving smiles of God, 

And the angels who come for our own asleep 
Have little thought of the snowclad sod, 

For they bear them away on wings of love 
To the beautiful mansions of joy above. 



Page Thirty-eight 



Called to Bloom Above 

A GARDENER tended his flowers fair, 

With a joy that was tinged with pride, 
For he thought what have I but my buds and 
flowers, 
To cheer my life in my lonely hours, 
Naught else in the world beside. 

And one was a sweet-faced violet fair, 

With eyes of a heavenly blue, 
That reflected the joys of the angels above, 

And the sweet low cooing of the dove 
Was the voice of this blossom true. 

But one dark day there came a cloud 
That shaded the sun's bright ray, 

And an angel came while the light was dim 
And took the sweet blossom back to Him 

Who had loaned it but for a dav. 



Hope 



T 



HOUGH the moon be hid by darkling clouds, 
And you see no guiding star, 
With never a mark on the ocean dark, 

To point the harbor bar; 
Just look above and the breath of love 

Will drive the clouds away; 
And the troubles of night will fade with the light 

That marks the coming day. 
The sweet-faced flower, at the dawning hour, 

Takes color of richest hue; 
And the flower of the heart, with joy will start, 

If the light but shines for you. 

Page Thirty-nine 



At Forty 

^ND what do you think of it all, Billf 
The hustle and bustle and grind; 
You're forty years old this fall, Bill. 

You 've left forty summers behind. 
And what do you think of it all. Bill ? 

The hustle and bustle and grind. 

Is life what you thought it would be, Bill? 

When you f ormed your plans as a youth ? 
Is it all you would wish to see, Bill? 

Is it filled with beauty and truth ? 
Is life what you thought it would be, Bill? 

When you formed your plans as a youth? 

Now ain't it an honest fact, Bill, 
That life is just what we build? 

Made up of each little act, Bill, 
'Till our measure of time is filled? 

Now ain't it an honest fact. Bill, 
That life is just what we build? 



Page Forty 



A 



The Plowman 

C 1 dawning of the budding day, 
When leaf and branch empearled 
With sparkling dew, and wild birds come 

To wake the sleeping world, 
The plowman goes with honest face 

To greet the rising sun, 
And in his heart he feels the joy 
Of day that's just begun. 

And see, as o'er the field he treads. 

With steady step and slow, 
He turns the weeds and briars down 

That golden grain may grow. 
And when the shades of evening come 

To give the rest he needs, 
He thinks about a blossom lost 

That mingled with the weeds; 

And when the dew and breath of heaven 

Has come to bless his yield, 
And in the fullness of his heart, 

He views the harvest field, 
He feels the joy that comes to him 

Who in the spring's warm mould 
Has sowed the seed that now comes forth 

To bless a hundred-fold. 



Page Forty-one 



The Great Divide 

CEE yonder trail! that leads away, 

Toward the setting sun; 
Across the prairie, brown and gray, 
Then on through valleys, bright and gay, 
Where once the Redman held full sway, 
And wild deer had their run. 

Across the foothills rugged slope 

It takes its wandering course, 

Through canyons deep, whose rocky walls 

Point upward, where the eagle calls ; 

Across the cliff, where waterfalls 

Crash down in pondrous force, 

It winds up o 'er the mountain high, 
On, on through forests deep; 
Where mountain breezes ever blow, 
The fragrance from the flowers below. 
And wild things wander to and fro, 
And clinging ivies creep. 

It leads away past giant rocks, 
Up, where the stunted pine 
Looks o 'er a waste of barren land, 
But nature here, with lavish hand, 
Has strewn the earth with golden sand. 
That men may delve and mine. 

And here the trail is everywhere; 
' 'For 'tis the story, old," 
That man was ever quick to go, 
Through mountain torrent, ice and snow, 
And even to the realms below, 



If there he might find gold. 



Page Forty-two 



But let us take the trail agaiu, 

For, see; it starts anew; 

On up, past yonder rocky spire, 

That now the sun has touched with fire, 

You almost wait to hear the choir 

Of heaven, so grand the view. 

Now ever upwards leads the trail, 
Across the mountain side; 
Until, at last, you proudly stand 
Upon the arch that nature spanned, 
Across a country rich and grand, 
This is the Great Divide. 



Looking Backward 

QLEASANT memories ever gather 

Round the spot where, but a boy, 
I chased the butterflies of pleasure 

And not one grain of alloy 
Ever marred the golden sunshine 

Of those bright and happy hours, 
As I wandered through the meadows, 

Or through shady woodland bowers. 

And today, in looking backward, 

I can see a lowly cot, 
Each mark left by time's rude tracings 

Weaves a halo round the spot; 
I would give all earthly treasure 

Could I but return, once more, 
To boyhood's joys that knew no measure, 

Playing round that cottage door. 

Page Forty-three 



Thinking 

YY/HEN the shades of night are falling, 
When the lights are burning low, 
When the whipperwill is calling, 

Where the fireflies softly glow; 
It is then that fancy, creeping, 

Weaves her mystic, magic, spell. 
Stirs the shadows, fondly sleeping, 

In the depths of memory's well. 

Leads me from the man-made city, 

With its rattle, rush and roar, 
Where the sacred name of pity 

Is heard there now never more, 
Out where wild flowers sweetly growing, 

Weaves a carpet o 'er the sod, 
And their fragrance, upward blowing, 

Breathes the holy name of God. 

Takes me out where fields of clover, 

Lend their fragrance to the air, 
Where the honey bee flies over 

With the sweets he gathered there, 
Where the birds are ever singing 

In the soft and dewey morn, 
And their merry voices ringing 

Tells where happiness was born. 

Takes me down through leafy bowers, 

To the shady fishing pool, 
Where I spent such happy hours 

As I loitered home from school; 
Out where lambs are gayly playing, 

In the sunlit, verdant field, 
Out where harvest now is swaying 

'Neath the fullness of its yield. 

Page Forty-four 



Takes me to a cottage lowly, 

Nestled on a shady hill, 

Here a feeling almost holy 

Thrills me at that weathered sill ; 
Then I hear the hinges creaking 

As I open wide the door, 
Hear my mother fondly speaking 

To me, as in days of yore. 

Here I linger, loth to wander 

From that home of childhood days, 
In the gloaming there I ponder 

On life's ever changing ways, 
And my heart grows young, while thinking, 

Of those scenes I loved so well ; 
While in fancy I am drinking 

From the sweets of memorv's well. 



Kindness 

YY/"HE2\ T all seems dark and dreary, 

And grief, your heart bows down, 
When you 're sad and lone and weary, 

And you see but the world's fierce frown; 
Then, some one whispers "deary," 

And your tatters give way to a crown. 

When the troubles of life are pressing, 
And you feel they will never end, 

A kind word comes like a blessing, 
And you learn the sweet name of friend, 

Then Hope, with a hand carressing, 
Her richest gifts will send. 

Page Forty -five 



Our Baby 

A PPLE blossoms, sweet and fair, 

By angels fixed in place; 
With roguish dimples here and there, 
And silky threads of golden hair; 
Half hid by bits of lace, 

And happy is the summer air, 
To kiss his darling face. 

And see his eyes are open now! 

A shade of heaven's blue, 
Wild violets may wonder how 

He got those orbs, they won't allow 
Such gifts for me or you; 

I guess they came to kiss his brow, 
And left behind just two. 

And if you 'd see our baby smile, 

I'm sure you would agree 
That earth was fairer there the while, 

And sweeter far life's weary mile, 
For naught can brighter be 

Than life, to those, who free from guile 
Love blessed infancy. 



Page Forty-six 



The Cowboy's Grave 

"THEY laid liim away, beside the trail, 

Deep in his lonely bed; 
Where the coyote will howl, 
And the grizzly growl, 
And the stealthy mountain cat will prowl 
Over his lowly head; 
But why should he care ? 
He's at home out there, 
Where his cattle oft have fed. 

They laid him away, when all was fair, 

At the foot of the mountain tall, 

Where the wind will blow 

And the winter snow 

Fill the mountain gorge, where the stream will 

flow, 
When the sun shines over all, 
But why should he care ? 
He 's at home out there, 
Whether it's spring or fall. 

They laid him away, but the One who watched 

The little sparrow fall, 

Has marked the spot 

And forgets it not, 

And will call him from his lowly cot, 

At the final roundup call; 

When account of stock, 

Of his earthly flock 

Will be viewed by the Shepherd of all. 



Page Forty-seven 



Flowers 

f^NCE I walked where happy June 

Reared her choicest, sweetest flowers ; 
Where fond nature 's rich perfume 

Filled the golden, sunlit hours, 
There I saw each pretty flower 

As it nodded on its stalk, 
Making glad the summer hour 

For me, as I chanced to walk, 
Breathing in the fragrant air, 

Of their perfume, rich and rare. 

Little buds, just peeping through, 

Lids, that opened to the day; 
Taking now their first wee view, 

Of a world so bright and gay, 
Wondering what their place may be, 

'Mongst so many pretty flowers. 
But, from what I now can see, 

They'll have many happy hours; 
Little buds, I wish you well, 

Soon your story you may tell. 

There the rose of blushing hue, 

Color rich and warm and red, 
Seemed to nod a how-de-do, 

As it shook its saucy head; 
Seemed that its one happy duty, 

While it spent its too short hours, 
"Was to fill the world with beauty, 

Queen of beauty, queen of flowers, 
All so happy they did seem, 

It was like a summer dream. 



Page Forty-eight 



There the rose of yesterday, 

Stands apart, with head bowed down, 
Beauty, now has passed away, 

Petals scattered on the ground, 
But the life that made it fair, 

Was not lost e 'en at its death, 
For we find its fragrance rare, 

In the opening bud 's first breath ; 
Life, that's pure, don't pass away, 

But lives to bless each coming day. 

Buds and flowers and fading tree, 

You, my fondest love doth share, 
For without you life would be 

Stript of much that's sweet and fair; 
I love the bud, for what 'twill be, 

I love the beauteous, blowing rose, 
And in the fading leaf I see 

A halo fair, to mark life's close, 
Like one who leaves in peace with all, 

Smiles softly, as the angels call. 



Speak Kindly 

r HE dew that comes to the fading flower 

Brings hope of a better day. 
Kind words are more than wealth and power 

To help us on our way. 
And, like the pearl of sparkling dew 

That cheers the petals brown, 
Each kindly word brings life anew 
To hearts by grief bow 'd down. 



Page Forty-nine 



Indian Cupid 

QL'T upon the western prairie, 

Lived an Indian maid, 
With heart as light as sunbeams airy, 

Face of dusky shade, 
Daughter of the western land, 

With spirit unafraid. 

To this maid a youth came wooing, 

In the autumn brown; 
Like a dove, his love tale cooing, 

Does the maiden frown? 
Not, when Cupid sets a heart, 

In love's golden crown. 

Cupid on the western prairie, 

Learned to use his bow; 
Shooting at each dusky fairy, 

In the long ago; 
When a brave had set his love mark 

On some heart aglow. 

When the summer fair was coming, 

And the scented air 
Murmured with the busy humming 

'Mongst the blossoms there, 
This young brave built him a teepee 

For his love to share. 

Joyously were torn toms ringing, 

On their wedding day, 
Gayly were the children singing, 

Dressed in glad array; 
Proudly did that happy red man 

Lead his bride awav. 



Page Fifty 



Here we draw the deerskin curtain, 

Leave them for a while; 
With a feeling fondly certain 

She will ever smile; 
For they are fair nature's children, 

Free from every guile. 



Castles 

I BUILT a castle of beauty rare, 

In a garden where roses bloom; 
There were wondrous halls 

With marble walls, 
And many a sunlit room, 

But I built my castle on shifting sands, 
And it proved for my hopes, a tomb. 

I planted a rose tree with tender care, 

And watched, with a lover's eye, 
For the little buds to blossom fair, 

But the petals were faded and dry ; 
For the soil was of chalk, 

And my sweet, young flower 
Lived only to droop and die. 

There is many a wish that will ne'er come true, 
But the pleasure of hoping is ours; 

There is many a bud that is fair to view, 
That we'll not find among the flowers. 

But the thought that is bourn on the wings of 
hope, 
Is from heaven's highest towers. 



Page Fifty-one 



Mexican Joe 

"V^E rode one day from Faywood, 

Mexican Joe and I, 
And down the slope did our ponies lope, 

Over the sun-baked prairies dry; 
For this was down where fields are brown, 

In the season of July. 

Then round past Table mountain, 

On, through the city of rocks, 
Where coyotes sleep in the shadows deep, 

And dream of the fattening flocks ; 
And the rythmic beat of our ponies ' feet 

Bang out like living clocks. 

For this was the day allotted, 

For Mexican Joe and I, 
To ride to the crest of Eagles' Nest, 

Where mountain meets the sky; 
Where snow and clouds, like somber shrouds, 

Still wrap the peaks on high. 

For Joe had often confided, 

His story I should know, 
Of the dark-eyed maid, of dusky shade, 

He loved in the long ago ; 
And how she did lie, on the mountain high, 

Up there in the sun's bright glow. 

Then on to the Membres river, 
We would follow that narrow stream 

To its home in the hills, where mountain rills 
Awake from their winter's dream; 

And the summer snow gives back the glow 
Of the sun's eternal gleam. 

Page Fifty-two 



We rode through the cool of the morning , 

Into the heat of the day, 
Past boulders grand, that ever stand, 

Like sentinels in gray; 
And on the right, all capped in white, 

The mountains rolled away. 

We rode through darkling canyons, 

Whose rocky caverns deep, 
Shut out from sight the sun's bright light, 

Where sightless insects creep; 
And from the walls the night bird calls, 

When roused from its noonday sleep. 

Then ever now ascending, 

'er many a broken trail, 
We left the pine at timber line, 

''For verdure here doth fail!" 
Above the snow, the sun's bright glow, 

Hung like a silver veil. 

Then Joe turned in his saddle 

And pointed off to the right, 
To where a stone rose all alone, 

While a sad tear dimmed his sight ; 
She lies out there, my beauty fair, 

Beneath that stone so white. 

And when he had knelt in silence, 
Out there on the mountain side, 

With tearstained eyes raised to the skies, 
While I my own did hide; 

He kissed the ground of the lowly mound 
With reverence and pride. 



Page Fifty-threr 



"You see," and this was his story, 

"I loved her as a child; 
And every hill and babbling rill 

That flows down the mountain, wild, 
Knew of our love 'till the heavens above, 

Like a fond mother, smiled. 

' ' And like a bud in springtime, 

I watched each leaf unfold, 
So pure and sweet, with a heart that beat 

As true as mountain gold; 
And a spirit fair, as light as air 

That never can grow old. 

"And oft we did ride together, 
Up here at the foot of the snow, 

And she would say, in her child-like way, 
Now promise me, my Joe, 

If I should die, you'll let me lie 
Up here, in the sun 's bright glow. 

"And we were to marry in springtime, 

The day had long been set; 
And I must go to El Paso, 

Some furnishings to get; 
She said good-bye, with tearstained eye, 

While mine with tears were wet. 

"And the day of my returning, 

She saddled her pony small, 
And rode away, at the dawn of day, 

Way up on that rocky wall, 
Where she could see the whole country, 

And watch for my signal call. 



Page Fifty-four 



"And here is where we found her, 
Up here in the sun's bright glow, 

And how she did fall from the rocky wall, 
I never, now, may know; 

But near the edge was a broken ledge, 
And partly hid by the snow. 

"And like a frost in springtime, 

When petals soft unfold, 
This cruel frost, at awful cost, 

Had touched her heart of gold, 
And called my love up there above, 

Where blossoms know no cold. 

"And here is where we laid her, 
Right here at the foot of the snow, 

For she did say, in that bygone day, 
Now promise me, my Joe, 

If I should die, you'll let me lie 
Up here in the sun's bright glow." 



Charity 

17 AIR is the rose, in early spring, 

When touched by the dews of morn; 
But pick it not, for just beneath, 

Awaits that cruel thorn; 
Wise nature, with her bounteous hand, 

And heart so full of love, 
Has covered the thorn and its piercing point 

By placing the rose above, 
So as your way through life you go, 

Where e 'er a fault you see, 
Just cover it with a rose of love. 

And heaven your reward will be. 

Page Fifty-fire 



The Cave 

Y^U walk where giant walls 

Shut out the sun's bright light, 
To where an ever deepening gloom 
Leads on to endless night; 

Through rocky caverns deep, 

You wander on alone, 
And view, by the aid of a taper bright. 

This miracle of stone. 

Of stone are the rugged walls, 

Of stone the soundless floor, 
And stone the vaulted arch above, 

With jewels crusted o 'er. 

The sun that laughed through the showers, 

Of a thousand years ago, 
Has filtered through these walls of rock 

And lost none of its glow. 

A thousand, thousand years, 

Has modeled this house of stone, 

And the weight of it all is on you 
As you wander there alone. 

Alone in the depths of the earth, 

Where all the ages sleep, 
And you read in the crystal stalactites, 

The records that they keep; 

And when from this temple grand 

You go back to the sunlit air, 
You've a deeper reverence for the hand 

That wrought those wonders there. 

Page Fit'ty-six 



Wasted Lives 

I STOOD in the old churchyard one night, 

Where the bones of loved ones lay, 
And heard the voice, in the fading light, 

Of a soul that had passed away. 
And the voice came o'er and hovered near 

A grave just newly made; 
I stood transfixed by an awful fear, 

And I list to that troubled shade. 
Oh, the earth is dark, and the earth is cold, 

For that body I loved so well, 
No sun's bright ray, but damp and mould, 

Now visits your lonely cell. 
Oh, where is the name, and where is the fame, 

You planned in your earthly day? 
Oh, why did you give not a thought to me, 

That I must live on for aye. 
There was sadness in that spirit voice, 

There was hopeless, dark despair, 
'Twas tinged by the things that might have 
been, 

'Twas a wail on the midnight air; 
'Twas the voice of the soul, of a wasted life ; 

"Reviewing its time from birth, 
For alone it would reap the harvest now 

From seed that was sown on earth. 



Page Fifty-seven 



The Brook 

"TELL nie, little babbling brook, 

As you ripple by, 
Of the shady, grassy nook, 

On the mountain high; 
Where you once did sport in glee, 

Before you ran away, 
The great wide country for to see 

And there forget your play. 

Tell me of the scenes you view, 

As you run along, 
Through a country ever new, 

Singing there your song ; 
Do you of the old times think, 

Where the lilies sleep, 
When you reach the very brink 

Of some awful leap? 

Do you, when you see ahead 

Eocks that bar the way, 
Loiter there within your bed, 

Downcast with dismay ? 
Or do you gather up your force 

And hurl the rocks afar, 
That nothing may obstruct your course. 

Naught your progress bar? 

When you meet another stream, 

Then what do you do? 
Glide along and idly dream, 

When there's work for two? 
Do you take your honest share 

Of what fate may send, 
Smilingly the burdens bear 

To the very end? 

Page Fifty-eight 



Whisper back, Oh, babbling brook, 

From that land away, 
Since you've seen the world's great book, 

Is your heart still gay? 
Are you weary of the race? 

Would you now be free? 
Are you ready for your place 

Tn the endless sea? 



Then and Now 

IF I were a man, said the budding youth, 

A wondrous man I'd be; 
I'd travel the great world o'er and o'er, 

And sail on the stormy sea, 
I'd write my name in the book of fame, 

And live in history. 

If I were a youth, the graybeard said, 

About my mother's knee, 
I 'd care not a snap for the great wide world, 

Or a fig for the rolling sea ; 
But spend my hours amongst the flowers, 

And live contentedly. 

If I were a man, the youth replied, 

But soon a man was he, 
And he traveled the great world o 'er and o 'er, 

And sailed the stormy sea; 
And he then understood the greybeard's mood 

When he talked of his mother's knee. 



Page Fifty-nine 



The Suicide 

QO Bill blew out his brains! 

That's what the paper said; 
But that just explains 

That Bill is dead! 
The thing that I would like to know. 

And cannot quite see through, 
Is how this Mr. So-and-So 

Took this view? 
For I 've known Bill for many a year, 

Ever since he came to the plains, 
And I can swear by all that's dear, 

That Bill never had any brains. 



The Thrush 

I HEARD the thrush so sweetly sing, 

A serenade to his fair mate; 
As by he passed, on airy wing, 

From bush to bush, down by the gate. 

He told a tale of love so true, 
In every note that sounded clear; 

A love that thrilled him through and through, 
Making his every note more dear. 

And, as he sang his pleasing lay, 
His mate did fashion well the nest, 

That lent the pleasure to their day, 
And marked their happiness as blest. 

He sang throughout the summer fair, 
'Till little throats his notes did swell, 

And then it seemed there sounded there 
A note of thanks, that all was well 

Page Sixty 



Dying Year 

[ WALKED through the autumn fields one day, 

'Twas late in the lingering fall, 
The clouds hung low, in the vaulted way, 

And the sun shone not at all; 
Nature in grief had sought relief, 

By spreading her gloom o'er all. 

I thought of the spring, with scented breath, 

Whose breezes soft and warm, 
Were wooing the sweet flowers back from death, 

Away from winter's harm, 
Of birds that sing, as they do in spring, 

All neath the sun's bright charm. 

I thought of the summer, all in bloom, 

With color rich and grand, 
The red rose, bathed in sweet perfume, 

And gladness on every hand; 
Where a thousand notes from a thousand throats 

Lent cheer to the happy land. 

Then my thoughts returned to that dismal day, 

More dreary than before, 
And I wondered if all would end that way, 
No sunshine, as of yore. 
A white shroud spread over the earth's fair bed, 

And sadness ever more. 

Then from out the changing sky 

A ray of light shone clear, 
And the breezes whispered as they past by, 

We will bring you another year, 
With birds and flowers and sunlit hours, 

And my heart was filled with cheer. 

Page Sixty-one 



Learn Thou 

nTHE golden orb that brings to us the day 

Adds yesterday to the forgotten years; 
No span is there, the past is gone for aye, 

With all its wealth of hope, its smiles and 
tears. 

The morrow, like a bud formed in the night, 
May open to a sweet and fragrant flower, 

Or at the quickening dawn a lurking blight, 
Destroy its beauty fair within the hour. 

The flowers of yesterday are faded now and 
gone, 

And those that bloom no morrow e'er may see; 
For buds that sipped the dew of early dawn, 

Are hung ere night in mourning drapery. 

The sun that glints the early morning wave, 
Sees not the sail it left at yestereve; 

Nor does it show the deep and soundless grave, 
Or mourning hearts that now must wait and 
grieve. 

Nor hope, once brighter than the star, 

Or pleasure, planned for some far distant day; 

It lights instead, a floating broken spar, 

And bits of wreckage strewn across the bay. 

Each crested wave flings back the golden light, 
'Till all the sea is decked with jeweled foam; 

Nor thinks it of the storm of yesternight, 

That sent the mariner to his last long home. 



Page Sixty-two 



When all reflects the beauty of the sky, 

And earth's fair morning fills with happy 
light, 

With young life's precious current pulsing high, 
Why cloud the soul with visions of the night? 

I cannot well go back the path I came, 
The way is on, and on I take my way; 

But all uncertain, it is like a game, 

Where children strive in vain to learn to play. 

And yet, 'tis clear that nature strives to please, 
If I could only teach my erring hand; 

To grasp aright the ever waiting keys 
That open to the treasure for me planned. 

I know the bud that opens to the rose, 

Is happy, spreading perfume through its day, 

And knows not of December's winter snows, 
Its soul is linked with summer and with May. 

The bird that builds its nest in early spring, 
Thinks little of the ending of the year; 

It only knows it has a voice to sing, 

And gives the world its wealth of wholesome 
cheer. 

But many paths are here that I may take, 
And one is dark and dim and one is bright; 

And I, like one just roused from sleep to wake, 
Take that which first attracts my troubled 
sight, 

I hear the birds sing sweetly up above, 

They speak of woodland cool and meadow 
fair; 

They tell of joy, of happiness, and love, 
I crave it all, and plan their wings to snare. 

Page Sixty-three 



To catch and keep, these songsters, I engage, 
To have for aye this warbling, happy throng; 

But scarcely had I fixed them in their cage, 
"When they forgot their sonl inspiring song. 

The rose tree, blooming fair just at my hand, 
I reached and plucked a fragrant beauty, 
rare ; 

When, lo, a breeze that wandered o 'er the land, 
Scattered all that I had held, so fair. 

And stumbling over treasure in my haste, 

Like groping mole that knows no gift of sight, 

I leave the riches hid beneath the waste, 
I leave the day, and wander in the night. 

And not until the sun was in the west, 

And life's long shadows beckoned me to go, 

Did I take thought, to pause a while and rest, 
And learn the things that I in youth should 
know. 

That wild birds sing because their hearts are 
free, 

Their song is but a prayer of love and joy, 
That flowers fade, when taken from the tree, 

And leave the thorn our spirit to annoy. 

That that which at a distance seemed most fair, 

Is ever just a little farther on, 
Is ever in the field of over there, 

That leads away toward the setting sun. 

We plan and sow and count our future gain, 
And when at length the harvest day comes 
round, 
We find that weeds have mingled with the grain, 
We did not choose with care the planting 
ground. 

Page Sixty-four 



And oft I've watched the little humming bee, 
Gather the sweets, as I would fain have done, 

But learned too late, it kissed each flower free, 
And took a lover's forfeit and was gone. 

The fault was mine, for I was not content, 
To sip the honey with the little bee; 

I missed the sweets in useless time I spent 
In longing for the root, the branch, the tree. 

For if the thorn did not protect the rose, 
And I would gather all that I might bear, 

I'd find but drying leaves as life did close, 
With naught of all their fragrant beauty, rare. 

And, as the last rays of the setting sun 

Held back the shades of night for yet an hour, 

I thought if life had only now begun 
I'd try and learn from some fair little flower. 

To take what nature gives with generous hand, 
And in return give back a thousand fold, 

Like baser metals taken from the sand, 
Give up their wealth of richest, purest gold. 

And when the day was lost in shadows deep, 
And leaves are sear, and brown, and petals 
fall; 

Contented, I would lay me down to sleep, 
To waken when the angels gently call. 



Page Sixty-five 



A Dream 

I DRIFTED back along time's path, 

* Leaving for the while, 

The busy world, with all its rush, 

Retraced then, mile by mile, 
The stream of life unto its source, 

In the very long ago, 
When earth was young and man was not 

By death so soon laid low; 
When Father Time walked leisurely 

Throughout the goodly land, 
And used his fateful sickle 

With a far more sparing hand. 
I chanced to meet this aged myth, 

With beard so long and hoary, 
And on his arm there hung a scythe, 

The symbol of this glory. 
1 * Tell me, good Father Time, ' ' I asked, 

"A tale of years now ended; 
A tale of time that's past and gone, 

Wherein was ever blended 
Joy and sorrow, peace and strife — 

In short a tale of your own life. ' ' 
He looked me over carefully, 

In a queer and scanning way, 
And, leaning on his scythe the while, 

This to me did say: 
"It was written years ago 

That man may read and learn; 
That time and tide it waiteth not 

While the lamp of life doth burn, 
And for the taking of my time, 

Your life must forfeit be." 



Page Sixty-six 



He whetted up that awful blade, 

That was meant for uie; 
Theu, raising it above his head, 

He, with one sweeping stroke, 
Would have carried out his threat- 

But just then I awoke. 



Farm Troubles 



T 



HE summer sun, it shineth, 
Where the lowing herd reclineth, 
In the meadow, where it slopes toward the lea; 
The spotted calf doth amble 
Through the stubble and the bramble, 
While its mother chews her quid contentedly; 
The pigs are in the clover, 
And the farmer's dog, good Rover, 
Scares those fat and saucy porkers most to 

death ; 
The horses now are prancing, 
Where the summer sun is glancing, 
And the young colts follow after out of breath. 
The farmer gayly planteth, 
While his good wife sorely ranteth 
At the chickens as they busily do scratch, 
And she thinketh while she's ranting, 
There is little use of planting, 
Unless she keeps their footprints off the patch, 
The farmer now is mowing, 
And he's thinking while he's going, 
That he surely must add to his golden store, 
For his boys are all at college 
And will gather enough knowledge 
To spend all he can make and maybe more. 

Page Sixty-seven 



Do It Now 

JJON'T wait 'till you're old to enjoy the 
wealth, 

That providence throws your way; 
For the reaper grim, with fiendish stealth, 
Will rob you of all by taking your health, 

Leaving you broken and gray; 
A roast loses much that the heart enjoys 

When your teeth succumb to decay. 

Don't wait for the world to make you smile; 

If you do, you will ever frown; 
There's enough of cheer in every mile 
To bear you along if you laugh the while, 

And all your troubles drown; 
For laughter will chase the blues away 

Like wind the thistle down. 

Don't wait 'till you're rich, for an automobile, 

If you do you will never ride ; 
If you've only the price of a second-hand wheel, 
Get it and be out, while the red blood you feel 

Is flowing at fullest tide; 
You won't think much of a burst of speed 

When time has your feet well tied. 

And why should you wait when all you've got 

Is a few short, hurrying years? 
And do what you may, some little spot 
Will be dark and left where love comes not, 

And drenched by sorrow's tears; 
Just live while you may and be satisfied 

And let sunshine drown vour fears. 



Page Sixty-eight 



The Miner 

A MINER, with a miner 's heart, 
Worked on the mountain key, 
And his nights were filled with dreams of gold, 
And his days with poverty; 
For he was a miner through and through, 
And lived on hope, as miners do. 

Way up on the side of a mountain high, 

He lived there all alone, 

In a kind of a hut, he called a house, 

That he built of mud and stone; 

But his heart was light, for he saw each night 

A palace that faded with the light. 

And here he cooked his frugal meals, 

With hands both hard and brown; 

And went each day, with the certain thought 

That before the sun went down, 

He would find the vein he long had sought, 

But the night would come, and the gold come not. 

The years slipped by, as years will do. 
While the miner worked away, 
And wrinkles came to deck his brow, 
And his hair showed streaks of gray; 
But his miner's heart was young and light, 
'Twas filled with the gold, almost in sight. 

And one day, as the evening sun 

Was painting the distant west, 

I found him there, all cold and still. 

In that home he loved the best; 

And a smile had come, as his spirit passed: 

He had found a golden land at last. 

Page Sixty -nine 



Love 

OVE is a thing of beauty, 
Love is a thought sublime, 
Paving the path of duty 

With flowers from a heaven-kissed clime. 

Love builds a home in the forest; 

Love makes the warrior, bold; 
Throughout the earth, beginning at birth, 

Love rules the young and old. 

Love cheers the heart of the lowly, 

Brightens the palace grand; 
When sands are ebbing slowly, 

Soothes with a tender hand. 

Love binds the youth and maiden 

With chains of sweet flowers wrought, 

Love lights the soul to heaven's high goal, 
After the battle is fought. 



Page Seventy 



Coyotes 

IKE streaks of gray they fade away, 
Across the level plains, 
To leave behind a baffled wind, 

Through which, like narrow lanes, 
Are paths of void, where heat destroyed 

"What little air remains. 

You raise your gun and shoot for fun, 

As the bullet speeds away, 
It echoes back, I'm on the track 

Of that silent streak of gray, 
But to get in sight of the pesky wight, 

I'll need another day. 

It's the only thing on earth's great ring, 

That the hand above has made, 
That will ever run, beneath the sun. 

Without casting a trace of shade ; 
For a shadow would find 'twould be miles 
behind, 

Unless tied to the fur-trimmed jade. 



Page Seventy-one 



Life's Stages 

I SAW her one day, with cheeks so red, 

And eyes a heavenly blue; 
With golden curls, on her pretty head, 
When all of her world was new. 

I met her again, as a girl at school, 

Her hair still down in a curl; 
She carried her pencil, book and rule ; 

A beautiful, sunny girl. 

Again we met, at a party grand, 

Now she is a lady, tall, 
With suitors there, on every hand; 

She reigned the queen of the ball. 

I saw her today, and life's winter snow 
Had sprinkled her thinning hair, 

But her face still shone with the after glow 
Of the sunshine that once was there. 



Page Seventy-two 



The Cowboy 

A SUNDYED face, with just a trace 

Of fun in a daring eye; 
A big felt hat, a red cravat, 

And top boots mounting high; 
With leather chaps, held on by straps, 

And a spur on each high built heel; 
A rolling gait that would be a mate 

For a ship without a keel. 

In this western land, a good strong hand 

That can throw a lariat right, 
Or lead a dance, or take a chance 

In a game or a friendly fight; 
That can make you feel with its grip of steel, 

You're a welcome, honored guest; 
It 's all you need, ' ' with a little feed, ' ' 

On the prairies of the west. 

The cowboy ain't quite a halo'd saint, 

But this I want to say: 
He's the kind of a friend who'll stick to the end. 

No matter how goes the fray ; 
With a great big heart, that fills every part 

Of the space beneath his vest ; 
Though he wears the clothes the cowboy knows, 

He's a prince of the golden west. 



Page Seventy-three 



Drooping Blossoms 

QHE seemed such a pale little, frail little tot, 

As she lay on her snow white bed, 
For her dear little face had lost every trace 

Of color that health had once shed; 
And we felt that the angel was calling her low, 
While her mother sobbed fondly, "You cannot 
go." 

She had been such a near little, dear little child, 
And we all grew to love her so well; 

And now she lay there like a wild blossom, fair, 
That was touched by the frost in the dell; 

And we prayed that the angel would leave her 
a while, 
That we all might enjoy her sweet baby smile. 

And see, on that rare little, fair little face, 

Is a change we can all understand, 
And the mother bends low as she catches that 
glow, 
And kisses a dear little hand; 
And her fond, loving heart is again filled with 
cheer, 
"While the angel smiles softly while hovering 
near. 



Page Seventy-four 



That Boy 

LJERE, Bill, is that boy I was telling about, 

Now don't you think he is grand? 
He's as sharp as a tack, see him looking about, 

And, Bill, he can almost stand; 

Just look at his eyes, he knows me all right, 
See him watch me wherever I go ; 

And eat! say, Bill, he just eats a sight, 
But, of course, it ain't victuals, you know. 

Now, ain't he the cutest you ever did see! 

I know what you're going to say, 
He ain't just as big as he's going to be, 

But he's growing a lot every day; 
He beats every youngster that I know, a mile, 

Now, ain't he the best ever yet? 
And, Bill, let let his grin soften into a smile, 

And answered softly, "You bet!" 



Page Seventy-five 



Spring 

QH, who would say there is no God! 
When earth is warm with spring, 
With wild flowers peeping from the sod, 

Where wild birds gaily sing; 
When buds are bursting into blow, 

With color soft and warm ; 
And all about the sun 's bright glow, 

To add to earth's great charm. 

Oh, who would not be happy here? 

When leaf, and branch, and tree, 
Are welcoming the fair new year 

With picture melody; 
With velvet carpets on the fields, 

So sweet, with morning dew; 
When all the best that nature yields 

Is waiting here for you. 



Page Seventy-six 



The Lone Pine 

QTAXDING alone on the mountain, 

With your feet in the purling brook, 
That trickles away from the fountain, 

Way up in a shady nook, 
You stand out there, in the crisp, dry air, 

Like a leaf from nature's hook. 

What stories of time do you treasure, 

Away in your rugged form, 
Of days that were filled with pleasure, 

When earth was bright and warm, 
Of the darkened sky, when winds rushed by, 

And your head was bowed by the storm, 

And though you alone now are standing, 
You still lift your head to the sky, 

And the shade from your branches expanding, 
Proves a blessing to each passer by, 

Like a message of love from the fountain above, 
When all else is parched and dry. 



Page Seventy-seven 



Infinity 

OH, wondrous space in which the planets roll, 

Each in its own predestined course; 
Each a part of that celestial whole, 

Propelled by some unseen mystic force ; 
I stop and gaze at thy immensity, 

Comparing only with eternity. 

Had I a loom of great and wondrous power, 
And finest texture from the Indian shore, 

And start to weave within the hour, 
And work and plan for ever more, 

Using all the beauties that wealth might bring, 
I could not imitate thy fields, oh, spring. 

Had I the craft of some great master hand, 
And colors blended by a fairy sprite, 

I 'd watch the silver morn creep o 'er the land ; 
I'd watch the golden shadows of the night; 

And try and learn at least a little part 
Of thy great secret — the coloring art. 

And thus I stand, in wonderment and awe, 
And view thy changes, as thy seasons roll ; 

Each part so perfect, not one little flaw 

To mar the symmetry of thy wondrous whole; 

One thing I see, in this great plan, 
All is useful to the wants of man. 



Page Seventy-eight 



The Tenderfoot 

A lN^D what keeps that tenderfoot awake f 

Why don't he go to sleep? 
He says that a little rattlesnake 

Did into his blankets creep; 
Well, the way these city folks put on, 

Is enough to make one weep. 

And what did he say to the cook last night, 

That his thumb got into the tea? 
Well, if I was there, there would be a fight 

If he talked that way to me. 
If the stuff was hot, 'twas the cook that got 

The worst of the deal, not he. 

And really, his gun a smile would bring; 

I told the gay young lout 
That if he ever shot me with the thing, 

And I happened to find it out, 
I'd be so mad that I just couldn't help 

Inviting him into a bout. 

When I cash in and quit the range, 

And reach that heavenly shore , 
And find him there in that land so strange, 

It's me for the earth once more; 
But I'm sure St. Peter wouldn't let 

That fellow past the door. 



Page Seventy-nine 



Deep in the Heart 

J~)EEP in the heart of each mortal 

Is planted a little seed; 
One blooms at heaven's portal, 

And one brings forth a weed; 
And the stream of life, with each is rife, 

Onr every thought and deed. 

Deep in the heart of each mortal 

Is fought an endless fight, 
And viewed from heaven's portal, 

Is judged if wrong or right; 
For the weed would be a blossom fair, 

And the flower would yield to a blight. 

Deep in the heart of each mortal, 

As shadows round us close; 
And nearing heaven's portal 

Each heart inclines to the rose, 
Then the weed and thorn, in new life born, 

Seeks rest in heaven's repose. 



Page Eighty 



Irish Philosophy 

I 'VE had a lot of trouble in my forty years and 
more, 
But the worst I've had, they never come at all. 
I've been building up the future till my mind 
and heart are sore, 
And before I have it built, sure it does fall. 

For troubles are like bubbles: they are smaller 
than they look ; 
And they float away upon the sunlit air. 
We are children being frightened by the pic- 
tures in a book, 
When we should be finding gems ahidden 
there. 

I've had a lot of pleasure in my forty years and 
more; 
There's been a smile to balance every tear. 
For the angry waves that dash upon the troubled 
ocean's shore 
Leaves there a pearl to rob me of my fear. 

For pleasure is a treasure that the human heart 
doth hold, 
The world is but a playground to us all; 
We may wander in the sunshine, or in the 
winter's cold, 
It's in the heart that lives the spring and fall. 



Page Eighty-one 



Buckskin Dan 

T* IS of a time wlien the map of the West 

Was blank right up to the Rockies' crest, 

I'm writing; 
And man was judged by the way he rode, 
Or if he a white feather show 'd 

While fighting; 
And here where Denver proudly stands, 
Was just a stretch of prairie lands, 

So sunny; 
And houses were the crudest shacks, 
And streets were only wagon tracks, 

So funny. 

I boarded a coach of the overland mail, 
That was going West on the mountain trail, 

One morning, 
When spring had hung her banners out 
And nature was the hills about 

Adorning; 
I rode outside with the driver bold, 
A man whose heart was purest gold 

And fury, 
Who told me, with a modest grin, 
That he was raised in a town back in 

Missouri. 

I would like to tell of that wondrous man 
The natives knew as Buckskin Dan, 

But, thunder! 
He was more to me than a man that day, 
He bore the heart of the blue and gray, 

A wonder. 



Page Eighty-two 



There's something about a gentleman 
That clothes don't change, or coat of tan 

Quite cover — 
A something deep within the soul, 
That sets a radiance o'er the whole 

To hover. 

We left the town and started West; 
A wild bird by the road her nest 

Was building, 
A fragrance filled the morning air, 
And sunbeams tipped each blossom fair 

With gilding; 
The driver in a cheery way, 
His tales of many a bygone day 

Confiding, 
And in my heart I felt the joy 
That comes to any healthy boy 

While riding. 

W"e had gone about ten miles or so; 
The wild flowers here were all aglow. 

Near Golden, 
A sort of little shanty town, 
And standing 'round a hunter brown 

And olden 
Were gathered quite a group of men, 
And here we learned that once again 

The Redmen 
Had found a camp the night before 
And marked the trail with deeds of gore 

And dead men. 

We listened to those angry men 
Tell of their friends up in the glen 
So lonely, 

Page Eighty-three 



And only one in all that band 
Seemed ready there to raise a hand — 

He only, 
Sat there beside me, whistling low 
A nursery tune I used to know, 

Reminding 
"When joy and happiness that twain 
Had never thought of trouble 's skein 

Unwinding. 

And then up spoke that driver bold. 

With a voice that through the foothills rolled, 

Undaunted, 
"If you are men, why stand you here? 
With faces blanched and hearts with fear 

Now haunted, 
Because that murderous Indian band 
Has dared again to show its hand 

So fearful? 
Think of the trail that must reach across 
To loved ones that now know a loss 

So tearful. 

* ' As for me, I am driving the mail 
That I've sworn to carry without fail 

Or waiting, 
And I will either go clear through 
Or you may be some story new 

Relating. ' ' 
Then turning, on his duty bent, 
He gave the lash a crack that sent 

Us flying 
On, on to where the night before 
A dozen men lay drenched in gore 

And dying. 



Page Eighty-four 



And as we reached the timber ground 
He turned a little way around, 

And, handing 
The reins to me in offhand way, 
Said, "I will let you drive today." 

Then standing 
With one foot on that bag of mail 
He had sworn to carry without fail, 

He shouted, 
With a cheery voice, to those panting nags, 
And a word to me to avoid the crags, 

Nor doubted 

His leading team of foaming bays, 
Or yet the sturdier pair of grays — 

Just waited, 
With pistol gripped in either hand; 
He seemed a man born to command, 

Just fated. 
We rounded a boulder jutting out — 
Will I ever forget that fiendish shout 

That started 
The echo 's flying far and near. 
There was no time for waiting here 

Half-hearted. 

For from the rocks and many a tree, 
The arrows on the breezes free 

Came flying, 
With Dan, the buckskin knight of old, 
Whose aim was true as his heart was bold, 

Replying; 
And every time he reached his mark 
And from the rocks a warrior dark 

Came falling, 

Page Eighty-five 



I heard him murmur, ' ' That's one more 
To help to settle last night's score 
That's calling." 

It seemed an age, those moments short, 
For I was young at this new sport 

Of blazing 
The way for civilization's train, 
And as I sat with whirling brain, 

Just gazing, 
I heard the voice of that man of steel, 
As o'er the rocks a brave did keel, 

"I got him — 
The leader of this band of gore; 
I heard him curse the whites before 

I shot him. ' ' 

The leader gone, that bloody band 
Were now content to stay their hand, 

And started 
So silently to leave the spot, 
And we with just one farewell shot 

Departed. 
And now, though years have rolled away. 
Yet ever comes that awful day 

Of fighting, 
And in my mind I see the man 
The people knew as Buckskin Dan, 

While writing. 



Page Eighty -six 



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